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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24594253">Even To the Edge</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode'>LydianNode</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Freddie Mercury Weekend 2020, Friendship, Gen, Platonic Frian, Sickfic, does drano work on writer's block? asking for a friend</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:22:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,791</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24594253</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>June, 1974. Freddie's visit to a convalescing Brian requires courage, love, and quick thinking.</p><p>  <i>Freddie follows Brian's gaze around the room. There's precious little of Brian in his old bedroom other than the basic furniture, no books or youthful memorabilia to make him feel welcome. It's clean, functional, and utterly impersonal apart from the few suitcases brought home from their aborted tour and the poor, lonely guitar.</i></p><p>  <i>Small wonder that Brian is already straining at his bonds, surrounded as he is by the evidence of what they'd lost.</i><br/></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brian May - Relationship, Freddie Mercury - Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Even To the Edge</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,<br/>But bears it out even to the edge of doom.<br/>—William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>June, 1974</p><p>As much as Freddie adores, worries about, and misses Brian, he still doesn't want to knock. No, he doesn't; his hand balls up into a tense fist and hovers just shy of the wood. He's planned his visit for when May <em>père </em>will be away at work, but there's still Mrs. May to contend with. It's enough to make him tremble.</p><p>He's bumped into her a few times at St. Thomas'. It's eerie because Brian has her face, her kind smile and inquisitive eyes cast in a more masculine mold. Freddie would love to draw her, but not now, not these days, not when her precious child is still recuperating.</p><p>How she must resent Freddie for luring her brilliant, promising scholar away from the stars for a worldlier star, a stardom that's just out of reach.</p><p><em>But we were so close</em>, he thinks as he swallows down his fear and taps lightly on the door. <em>The crowd wanted encores. They wanted MORE.</em></p><p>Mrs. May appears. "Hello, Freddie, dear," she says. She's wearing scarlet lipstick and carrying a little handbag. The pillbox hat atop her wavy hair has to be years old, but it's incredibly well preserved. Of course it is. She takes care of things: her husband, her son, her possessions. "Wonderful timing - I have to meet some friends, and Brian would love company." She lowers her voice. "He's not having his best day."</p><p>She's going out? She's LEAVING him, alone and poorly? Freddie's stomach lurches at the thought. It's a full-body response, a memory of nights in a crowded dormitory, pillow stuffed in his mouth to stifle the anguished cries. A thousand miles away from <em>Mummy.</em></p><p>Ruth May is not Mummy. She's Brian's mother, and Brian has different needs. He's a man, not a silly boy, not a helpless little thing. He's just ill.</p><p>Freddie gives her the best smile he can muster. "I'm happy to sit with him, if he's up to it," he says. It sounds rehearsed. The right things always have to be rehearsed. Over and over. Good isn't good enough. Perfection is all that matters.</p><p>It's only when they're at the door to Brian's bedroom that Freddie realises that Mrs. May has been chatting to him all this time. About something vague, something to do with laying out Brian's tea for later, if anyone can get him to eat because nothing tastes good these days after Lord knows what they fed him in hospital.</p><p>"I'll look after him," Freddie promises. Oh, how his father would laugh and laugh at that.</p><p>Mrs. May beams at him. "He'll be so happy to see you." She raps smartly on the door frame. "Brian, look who's here!"<br/>
<br/>
Freddie pastes on another smile, the one he started using on the flight from New York whenever he had to look at Brian's yellow face and lie to it. <em>You're going to be just fine, dear, just close your eyes and get some rest.</em></p><p>Brian's smile is more genuine. "Hi, Freddie," he calls out. His voice still has a rough edge from illness and disuse, a hoarseness that sounds cocky on Roger but fragile on Brian. "C'mon in."</p><p>Mrs. May ushers Freddie into the room, settling her perfectly placed hat again in a gesture reminiscent of Brian's obsessive guitar tuning. "If you get hungry, there's a lovely cake in the kitchen from one of the neighbours; I'll have to remember to take the dish back. Anyway, I have to dash - have a lovely visit." She blows Brian a goodbye kiss and he blushes, shifting uncomfortably in the bed.</p><p>"She does overdo," he mumbles once his mother is out of earshot.</p><p>"I think she's lovely," returns Freddie as he pulls up the chair from Brian's old desk and sits beside the bed. "How are you feeling?"</p><p>"Better, thanks. Glad to see you." Brian pulls himself upright with a quiet sigh. "They're wonderful, my folks, but they hover. And Dad lectures."</p><p>"I can imagine." And he can. He's heard enough from his own family, and he's not even sick. Not in that way, at least. "You've only been home from hospital a week, after all. They'll calm down once they're used to having you here again."</p><p>"Mmm." Brian doesn't sound convinced. He faces away, eyes focused on the guitar case standing idle in the corner. "They won't let me play," he complains.</p><p>Freddie can see why. Brian's long hands are no longer yellow, thank God, but they're pale, with bruises fluctuating from purple to green where intravenous lines have been. His right hand is still swollen and the left trembles as it forms ghost chords on the blanket. "Maybe in a few more days," Freddie offers by way of consolation.</p><p>"It's been a MONTH already." Freddie follows Brian's gaze around the room. There's precious little of Brian in his old bedroom other than the basic furniture, no books or youthful memorabilia to make him feel welcome. It's clean, functional, and utterly impersonal apart from the few suitcases brought home from their aborted tour and the poor, lonely guitar.</p><p>Small wonder that Brian is already straining at his bonds, surrounded as he is by the evidence of what they'd lost.</p><p>"Well, at first you were..." All the words to describe Brian in the throes of illness aren't helpful ones. <em>Helpless. Delirious. Failing. </em>"Not really doing terribly well."</p><p>Brian snorts. A small, sad smile flickers across his lips. "Useless?" he supplies, and Freddie gasps.</p><p>"No!" His heart hammers at the very idea. "Never that, darling."</p><p>"I've had a lot of time to think," Brian says slowly. His eyelashes, crusted a little with sleep—or perhaps the remnants of tears—flutter when he blinks. "I cost the group a lot. Maybe everything we've ever worked for."</p><p>"We NEVER—" Freddie begins, hotly, but he can't finish the sentence. They've all had that uncharitable thought in their darkest moments. John even gave voice to it once, albeit with guilt in his eyes, and the vehemence with which Roger shot him down had brought everyone to remorseful tears.</p><p>"Don't lie to me, Fred. You're rubbish at it."</p><p>Freddie can't quite swallow the lump in his throat. Like a little boy. Like the shitty person he is, the twit who can't manage a sickbed visit without making everything worse. He reverts to the old trick of staring up at a lightbulb until the feeling subsides. "But you're better now. You'll be up and about in no time."</p><p>"Not likely. Fuck, I can't even take a shower without needing a nap after." There's a world of pain in Brian's sigh. "Even sitting up like this...it's too much."</p><p>Immediately Freddie leans forward and helps Brian settle himself back down on the bed. <em>Let me tuck you in. </em>He pulls the blanket up to Brian's too-prominent collarbones. <em>Let me love you. </em>He runs his hand over Brian's cheek and into his hair. <em>Because I do.</em></p><p>"Can I get you anything? Water, tea?" <em>Health? </em>"Cake?"</p><p>Brian turns his head, leaning into Freddie's touch. "Food tastes like cardboard these days," he says. "I'd love a beer, though."</p><p>"Absolutely not." Alcohol and a damaged liver, Roger had explained patiently (for Roger), were a terrible combination. "Not now, at least. But once you're all better, after our next gig, we'll take you out and you may order the most expensive beer they offer!"</p><p>Somehow, that's the wrong thing to say. Brian's face clouds over. "About that," he says. Just two words, but they're enough to turn Freddie cold with dread. "Like I said, I've had a lot of time to think. And, well, I've had an offer."</p><p>
  <em>GOD.</em>
  
</p><p>"What kind of offer?" Freddie asks. It's more of a squeak, because his throat is unbearably tight.</p><p>"The Mael brothers came by yesterday. You know, Ron and Russell. From Sparks." Brian sounds far away, lost in contemplation. "They want to expand beyond keyboard and vocals, so they're looking for a guitarist..."</p><p>
  <em>NO.</em>
  
</p><p>"...and I thought, maybe this would give you guys the chance to start over with someone new. Because, let's face it, I let you down in the worst way possible and you'll never look at me the same way again."</p><p>
  <em>NO.</em>
</p><p>"So, what do you think, Freddie?"</p><p>
  <em>Don't leave us. </em>
</p><p>The air in Freddie's lungs feels like lead.</p><p>
  <em>Don't leave ME.</em>
</p><p>He rehearses a lot of quips and jests but he has nothing prepared for such a moment, hasn't worked up a quick response for having his heart shattered quite this thoroughly. "Do you WANT to go?" is all he can accomplish.</p><p>Brian's little shrug is eloquent in its own way: embarrassment, defeat, self-sacrifice, loneliness. "I can't imagine," he says thickly, "that you'd want me to stay."</p><p>"What? How could you think that? Oh, Brian, no!" Illness be damned, he leans over and kisses Brian's forehead, whispering his next words against the hot, dry skin. "Brian, love, of COURSE I want you to stay."</p><p>"But...are you certain?"</p><p>Such a small question, unworthy of such a generous soul.</p><p>Freddie has never been more certain of anything in his life. He sits on the edge of the bed, closer, the better to grasp Brian's hands and hold them over his own heart.</p><p>"Remember at first, when you weren't sure about the group?" So long ago. Brian looks up at him with shy hopefulness shining in his eyes and nods. "Remember what I told you? 'You are my Hendrix, darling, and we're going to do this thing.' I meant it then, and it's still true."</p><p>He may not have the courage to utter his love in any other way but it clearly contents Brian, who raises his weary head just enough to settle on Freddie's lap. Freddie picks out a single curl, then twists it around his finger. There. Connected.</p><p>"Didn't want to go," murmurs Brian, one foot already set upon the distant shores of slumber.</p><p>"As if I'd let you." Freddie smooths the disheveled hair spilling over his thigh. "Silly boy." <em>Dear one. Dearest.</em></p><p>How he longs to stretch out on the narrow bed with Brian safe in his arms. What would Mrs. May say if she came home and found them so? Or, God forbid, Mr. May? What names might they call their offspring as they threw Freddie out into the street? He'll have to stay alert, then, not give in to the nervous exhaustion melting his bones. He'll have to borrow from his found family: backbone from John, unswerving loyalty from Roger.</p><p>And from Brian, lying so still, a relieved smile curling his mouth? How can he ask favours of someone who's endured so much? But Brian presses a sleepy, childlike kiss to his wrist, <em>love</em>, and with that love Freddie can conquer the world.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello there! It's been a while. The state of the world has left me numb and, well, non-functional. But I've dusted off this little thing because Freddie Mercury Weekend must not go uncelebrated.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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